


Chill Pill

by assoc_professor_booty



Category: Original Work
Genre: Bisexual Male Character, Drug Withdrawal, Love Triangles, M/M, Romantic Comedy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-10
Updated: 2021-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-17 06:53:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29962563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/assoc_professor_booty/pseuds/assoc_professor_booty
Summary: Ben Kessler, Esq. has a lot going for him: a fulfilling career, a decent apartment, and a bold, adventurous girlfriend who's all about mixing it up in the bedroom. Ben has his hands full after discovering Bridgette's "little problem." When her ex Dave barges in to the rescue, life gets even more complicated.
Kudos: 3





	1. Chapter 1

Ben Kessler decided to ignore the apartment's buzzer. Surely, out of all the possible scenarios in his life, there existed an even _less_ opportune time for the doorbell to ring. He was hard-pressed to come up with one right then, though.

_Just don't answer and they'll assume nobody's home._

But when the buzzer gave way to insistent pounding—loud enough to be heard over the roar of the filling bathtub—he was forced to admit that whoever had come to the door wasn't going away.

"Just," he said, looking down at his girlfriend, dazed in a half-naked slump on the bathroom floor, "um, hang tight."

Bridgette didn't make any moves objecting to the idea. Whoever was at the door had knuckles of steel and wasn't letting up on the metronome knocking, so Ben hurried out of the bathroom, wiping his hands on the seat of his khakis as he went. He pulled back the chain and twisted the deadbolt, too flustered to bother with checking the peephole. Just as he was opening the door, he realized there was puke on the shoulder of his sweater. Before he could do more than grimace at the odor coming off the damp patch, his front door was shoved back at his face.

"She still here?" Mr. Steel Knuckles growled, taking advantage of Ben's distraction and pushing through the doorway.

Ben nodded reflexively and added, on a tired sigh, "Yeah." He felt a pang of guilt for regretting that Bridgette _was_ still in his apartment. Then his brain caught up with his eyes and took a moment to process the man who'd busted into his living room.

The dark hair was short and curly instead of done up in stiff, angry spikes. The leather jacket was replaced with a chambray shirt. And the sneering mouth was now set in a tight line. But the man was unmistakably the same one Ben had been glimpsing for months now in the strip of photo booth prints Bridgette kept tucked away in her purse. _Because I forgive, Ben, but I never want to forget_ , she'd told him, refusing to elaborate when he'd asked about the pictures.

"You're…" Ben said, blinking in stupid surprise at the man.

"Dave." He craned his neck to look past Ben's shoulder.

"Bridgette's ex," Ben finished. _Why the hell is_ he _here?_

"That too." The man shifted, raising an arm like he meant to shove Ben out of the way. He must've noticed the stain on Ben's sweater and reconsidered, because he pulled back and ran his hand through his own hair instead. He gave Ben the once-over—eyes darting from the puke stain up to his disheveled hair and then down to his bare feet and spattered pant cuffs—before sidestepping him altogether and striding towards the hallway.

"How long's it been since her last fix?" he called back as he unerringly headed to the bathroom.

The statement stopped Ben mid-scurry in his attempt to catch up with the other man. "Fix?" He stood frozen in the living room. "No, you've-" got the wrong idea, he thought, but couldn't quite bring himself to say. "It's just…," he tried again. He didn't know how to finish the sentence.

_It's just what? A mix-up with a prescription that's gotten way out of hand?_

He thought about his discovery of a drawer filled with empty pill bottles in Bridgette's apartment earlier that afternoon. Ben checked his watch. God, had it really only been a handful of hours ago that brash, opinionated, effervescent Bridgette had explained to him in a brittle voice that she just needed a bit of help to get her little problem straightened out?

"I've got it under control," Ben said, trotting to catch up. Why was he bothering trying to explain this to a stranger who'd practically broken into his apartment, anyway? "And I don't remember saying you could-" he began, skidding to a halt before he ran into the guy's broad back. The other man hovered in the doorway, avoiding the growing puddle on the floor.

"Shit." Ben shouldered past him, cringing as his feet splashed in tepid water from the overflowing tub. "Dammit, Bridgette!"

The shout seemed to rouse his girlfriend from her newfound slouch in one of the bathroom's drier sections, but she only had eyes for the man still standing in the doorway. "Davey!" Her bright smile was somewhat dimmed by the fact that she was sitting on the toilet, hunched over a plastic wastebasket. Her jeans hung on for dear life around one ankle. "You're-" she swallowed in a way that made Ben feel sympathy queasiness. "You're a sight for sore eyes."

Ben twisted off the water tap and pulled the tub stopper. That was one problem down, at least. He looked up to where Bridgette's ex— _Davey_ —still stood in the doorway, ready to tell him to get lost.

The words dried up as he took in the sag of the man's shoulders. He looked less like the snarling wannabe punk from Bridgette's pictures now. _He's older. And tired. Sad._

"Sure, Bridgette," Dave said. He sighed, pushing off from the doorframe. Ben noted with irritation that the guy hadn't bothered to take off his boots. They left streaks across the wet tile as he crossed over to crouch in front of Bridgette. He brushed the thick, sweaty bangs off her forehead. "You too, baby."

Ben felt his mouth hanging open. He understood that these two had history, but it was like he wasn't even in the room. "Hello? Boyfriend? Standing right here?"

Bridgette shot him a glare—the extra-nasty kind he'd only ever seen her bestow on people who cut in line at Starbucks—before focusing back on her ex. "God, Davey, I wasn't sure you'd come when I called. You have _got_ to get me outta here and away from this asshole."

"Hey!" Ben said, hurt. He told himself it was the sickness talking, trying not to think about the way her attention had been drifting from him lately. "Still standing right here." He looked between Bridgette's hopeful face and the other man's soft smile. "Also, _when_ did you call this guy?"

The question didn't even warrant a glare. "Please, babe," she said to Dave as she wrapped an arm around her stomach. "Tell me you've got something for me."

"Wait, you called him for _drugs_? Now?" Ben couldn't believe it. Not after she'd begged him to bring her back to his place so she could work it out of her system away from temptations. "If you think I'm going to let this creep feed you pills-"

Dave ignored him as easily as Bridgette had. "I'm sorry, sweetheart," he said, sighing as he lowered his head.

"You're shitting me, right? Come on, David, you can't-" She paused to spit—relatively daintily, to her credit—into the wastebasket. "You can't hold out on me _now_."

The other man shook his head.

"Dave…I'm fucking serious here," she said, letting go of her stomach to shove at him. "You need to give me something."

Dave raised his head, his smile returning with an edge that hinted at the skinny kid giving the finger to the camera in Bridgette's old photos. "How many times do I have to tell you I quit that shit for good? You know that. And that's _exactly_ why you called me."

Bridgette's lips drew back from her teeth in a move frighteningly reminiscent of Mrs. Cho's Chihuahua from the apartment upstairs. Ben inched back even though he was all the way on the other side of the room, suddenly a little grateful to be ignored.

"You fucker," she whispered.

Dave answered her with an even sharper smile. Ben was vaguely glad the guy hadn't come over to give Bridgette drugs, but that smile made him wonder just why he _had_ busted in. He took a reflexive step forward. But before he could say or do anything else, Bridgette kicked out at Dave's bent knees. Her trailing pant leg flailed as she tried to knock him on his ass. Dave hopped back and straightened, grinning like a maniac.

"Fucker! Fucking cocksucker!" she shouted before curling nearly in half and retching into the wastebasket.

Ben stared with wide eyes, shocked. Sure, Bridgette was no pushover when she got upset—it was one of the things he liked about her—but this was beyond the pale. She worked for a civil rights attorney, for Christ's sake! He cringed at the grinding sound of her getting sick, squishing his toes into the soaked bathmat.

"Atta way, Bridgette," Dave said dismissively. He turned to Ben, eyes glittering as he seemed to notice him for the first time since sizing him up at the front door. "Rule Number One: Never leave a junkie in withdrawal alone in a room with a phone." He gave Ben a condescending pat on the chest and splashed back to the medicine cabinet.

Bridgette coughed, her head still ducked into the wastebasket.

"Keep it comin', baby," Dave called over his shoulder. "Rule Number Two: Never leave a junkie in withdrawal alone in a room with a medicine cabinet." He pulled back the glass door and blinked at the neat rows of moisturizer, contact lens solution, hair gel, and toothpaste before cocking his head at Ben.

Bridgette gave a chocked cackle between retches. "I wish. Ben barely even keeps aspirin in the house."

"Seriously?" Dave asked, raising an arched brow. Before Ben could scrape together a response, the other man turned back to Bridgette. "Your tastes really have changed, huh princess?"

"Guh." She made a decidedly less delicate spitting sound. "Not so much as you'd think, asshole."

"Oh, really?" Dave gave him a speculative look, sizing him up in an altogether different way. Ben blushed and resisted the impulse to return the look. Even though Bridgette normally got a kick out of that sort of thing, now _really_ wasn't the time.

Dave shrugged. "If you say so," he said, turning back to Bridgette. "You about done there, sweets? Wanna get cleaned up or just go straight to bed?"

Ben shook himself out of his daze. Who was this guy to barge in and start telling them what to do, anyway? "Look, uh…"

"Dave," Dave supplied, pulling a pack of gum out of his pocket and folding a stick into his mouth before offering the rest to Ben.

"No, thank you." He waved it away, flustered. "Anyway, _Dave_ , I hate to be rude, but I think I've got it under control here. I'm…uh, I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to leave." Ben pointed to the doorway with as much dignity as possible, considering the motion made his vomit-damp sweater slide unsettlingly across his skin.

Dave stared at him, chomping on his gum.

Bridgette retched again. Ben tried—and failed—not to wince as she missed the wastebasket.

Dave slipped his hands into his pockets. "You're really going to turn down help in this situation?"

He kept his wavering arm pointed at the door for another handful of seconds. This guy was a stranger, probably mentally unhinged, and obviously had a more complex relationship with Bridgette than Ben wanted to think about.

Dave looked almost bored as Bridgette groaned and rested her head against the edge of the wastebasket. The other man's steady gaze reflected none of the panic or helplessness that Ben felt.

He sighed and slumped in defeat. "No."

Dave grinned, neon green gum peeking out from between his teeth. "Got a mop?"

"Do I…what?"

He gestured at the wet floor. "A mop. Do. You. Have. One?"

"I…." He shook his head. "Of course."

"You up for doing a little clean-up, baby cakes?" he asked Bridgette.

She groaned again.

"Guess that means it's up to you, sport. Bring whatever other cleaning shit you have and I'll deal with the biohazard over here, okay?" Dave jerked his thumb in the direction of the mess Bridgette had made on the floor near the toilet.

He considering telling the guy off for ordering him around in his own home—not to mention calling him _sport_ —but at this point he was too exhausted and overwhelmed to bother. Guiltily grateful that Dave had offered to deal with this round of puke, he hurried out of the bathroom.

When he returned toting a bucket of cleaning supplies and his microfiber mop, Dave was once again crouched in front of a lolling Bridgette, wiping her face with a washcloth. "I really didn't expect it this time," he told her, running a hand over the top of her chestnut bob. "New job, nice place, fancy boyfriend. Thought you were through with this shit, babe."

Ben cleared his throat.

"Hey, man. She's about ready to pass out for awhile, I think, so let's get her cleaned up and in bed."

Ben numbly handed over the paper towels and disinfectant and looked at his girlfriend. When had things started to fall apart with this smart, sexy, together woman who helped him throw dinner parties for the partners at the firm and stole his crossword puzzle to fill the empty spots with X-rated words? Had she started taking pills because of him?

"We've been together for six months, you know," he blurted.

Dave smirked at him from where he was brusquely swiping up the worst of Bridgette's mess. "Relax, champ. Me 'n Bridgette have been over for a long time." He sprayed down a layer of Lysol, ending with a little flourish of his wrist. "Don't really swing that way anymore. Never did, actually," he added with a crooked grin, "but you probably know she can be pretty damned persuasive."

Ben couldn't quite bring himself to smile and nod in agreement, so he concentrated on his mop instead. No, Bridgette's tastes apparently hadn't changed much, at least in one respect.

They soon put the bathroom into a passable state. Ben started refilling the tub while Dave shook Bridgette's shoulder. She was dozing, face mashed against the side of the wastebasket. She muttered something unintelligible and swatted at Dave's hand.

"Is that, uh, bad? That she's so out of it?" Earlier in the day, she'd promised Ben she wouldn't need to go to the hospital, but his knowledge and experience with drug withdrawal was limited to what he'd seen on TV.

"Nah," Dave said, turning and peeling off his shirt, exposing a chest that wasn't nearly as skinny as it had looked in those old pictures. The man either worked out religiously or had a job in construction. "She's been taking pills, right?"

Ben blinked a few times. "What?" He turned away, blushing again. "What are you doing?"

"She might look sleepy now, but I know from experience the woman can be a splasher when she gets angry." He draped the shirt on the towel rack. "Pills, right?"

"Oh, uh, yeah. I think so. Something for pain. She threw her back out a couple of months ago playing racquetball."

Dave's eyes bugged. " _Racquetball_? Jesus, Bridgette." He shook his head, looking amused. "Guess I'll take your word for it. Anyway, I figured she wouldn't venture out of her comfort zone." He got his arms under Bridgette's armpits and hauled her up with a grunt. Ben swallowed, trying not to notice the contrast of Dave's pale skin against her more olive tones.

"She's gonna be miserable for a while yet, and we're gonna need to make sure she gets some fluids before too long, but we oughta be alright here."

Ben nodded, bending down to strip Bridgette's jeans from her leg before he and Dave helped her stagger into the tub. "S'cold," she said, splashing petulantly at Dave crouched on one side of the tub before snuggling up to Ben crouched on the other.

Apparently Ben was no longer an asshole. He awkwardly patted the top of her head, glad that she at least didn't seem so angry with him anymore.

She wrinkled her nose where it rested inches from the stain on Ben's shoulder. "You're stinky."

"Oh yeah, and you just smell fresh as a daisy right now, Bridgette," Ben muttered.

That made Dave bark out a laugh. Bridgette lifted her head a little at the noise and shot Dave a weak glare, her eyes slipping closed again almost immediately as she slumped against the back of the tub. She sank until the water was up to her chin, tendrils of her hair fanning out like seaweed around her face.

Dave gave Ben's sweater a pointed look. "The woman has a point, sport," he said, pulling Bridgette up by the back of her head without missing a beat as her nose dipped under the water.

"How do you…what do…oh, for fuck's sake!" Ben struggled out of his sweater and tossed it toward the hamper. "Better now?" he asked, folding his arms across his chest. "And my name is Ben. Not champ. Not sport. _Ben_."

"Mmm," Dave agreed mildly. He didn't bother to avert his eyes the way Ben had when he'd taken off his shirt.

Bridgette sent a splash Dave's way. "Could you please contemplate bagging my boyfriend _after_ you've washed the puke out of my hair?"

"Of course, princess." He gave Ben a toothy smile, chomping his gum as he reached for the shampoo.

Ben's face heated and he grabbed a washcloth just to have something to do with his hands. He supposed he should've been grateful that the shouting, kicking, and throwing up had given way to banter, but it felt wrong under the circumstances.

"Thought you'd decided to check out for a few," Dave said, turning back to Bridgette.

Bridgette snorted. "You wish." She allowed him to tip her head back into the water. "He _is_ a totally insatiable bottom, though," she stage-whispered conspiratorially, scrunching up her face as Dave began to work lather into her hair.

Ben gave a strangled cough and felt his blush go atomic. He fought the urge to hide his face in the washcloth and dipped it into the water instead, wringing it out with unnecessary force.

"Really?" Dave—totally inappropriately—winked at Ben before saying, "I'm not so sure your boyfriend likes us discussing this, sweetheart."

Bridgette simply hummed as he continued to rub her scalp.

Ben, torn somewhere between embarrassment, shellshock, and—even though it made him feel like a first-class asshole—vague interest, decided it was time to get out of the pool. "It, uh, looks like you've got things under control in here, so I'm just going to…." He cocked his head toward the door. It felt like the blush spread all the way down to his chest as Dave gave him a wolfish smile. He made his escape, shutting the bathroom door on the splashing sounds inside.


	2. Chapter 2

Ben doused his face and chest with cold water from the kitchen sink until he was sure his blush was gone. Since he was there and feeling kind of useless, he went ahead and washed the dishes left over from breakfast.

In his bedroom, he hunted down an old college sweatshirt—thick and bulky—and pulled it on. During her first ill-fated attempt to get some rest, Bridgette had left the bed looking like a tornado hit, so he straightened up and changed the sheets. Then he grabbed the wastebasket from the office, put in a fresh liner, and set it near the nightstand. Finally, he found and lit one of the cucumber-scented candles Bridgette preferred.

The apartment was as tidy as it was going to get. Not knowing what else to do, he wandered back to the living room, sat down on the sofa, and scrolled through the Twitter feed on his phone without registering a single word. He tossed it down in disgust and went to hover outside the bathroom.

The splashing sounds and occasional deep rumble of Dave's voice had stopped a while ago. _What's going on in there? Is Bridgette okay?_ Maybe leaving her alone with Dave hadn't been such a great idea. He wondered if he should check on them.

Ben berated himself for needing to work up the courage to knock on his own bathroom door. So maybe he'd been in a little over his head, but this was _his_ place, dammit. And he and Bridgette…okay, it was weird between them lately— _drug problem_ , his mind supplied unhelpfully—but they were together. He should be the one taking care of her.

Dave had just caught them at a crazy moment, but the situation was under control now. Ben would thank him for his help, show him the front door, and tell him as politely as possible not to let it hit him on his way out.

The bathroom door opened just as he reached for it. Dave emerged cradling a limp Bridgette against his chest. Her hair was slicked back behind her ears and Ben's fluffy bathrobe practically swallowed her. She looked tiny, fragile. Deep frown lines creased her forehead even though she was obviously asleep.

All thoughts of kicking Dave out scattered.

Dave raised his eyebrows in a silent question. Ben answered with a jerk of his head toward the master bedroom, trailing the other man as he carried Bridgette in and deposited her on the freshly made bed. With a few efficient moves, he had her tucked under the covers without even making her twitch. Ben watched in silent bafflement as Dave unplugged the clock radio and scooped up Bridgette's phone from the nightstand. Then he blew out the candle Ben had lit and opened the window a crack.

"Got anything dangerous in here?" he asked quietly.

Ben shook his head.

"Okay." He strode out of the room. "The thing is, Ben, strong smells are gonna make her nauseous. We've already been over Rule Number One—junkie in withdrawal plus phone equals bad. And Bridgette won't be able to sleep for shit if she's able to actually track how slow the time is passing." He tucked Bridgette's phone into his pocket and carelessly dumped Ben's radio on the club chair in the living room on his way to the kitchen. At least he was using Ben's name now instead of calling him _sport_.

Ben followed, watching as Dave went straight for the refrigerator, matter-of-factly scrutinizing the contents. Without asking.

"Don't suppose you have any Kool-Aid?" he said as he pulled out two bottles of water and another of sports drink.

Ben shook his head again.

"Yeah, didn't think so." He set the drinks down on the soapstone countertop, freeing up his hands to rummage through Ben's cupboards. Without asking. Again.

Ben's jaw tightened. Annoyance over the other man's lack of manners was a simple, clarifying emotion.

"Rule Number Three," Dave said, elbow-deep in the shelf with baking supplies. "Sugar is a junkie in withdrawal's best friend. Bridgette always had a taste for the cheap stuff, but…ah ha!" He pulled out a Ghirardelli bar Ben had stashed behind a bag of bread flour. "This'll do. Shame she probably won't appreciate it."

Balancing the loot in his arms, he headed back to the bedroom. He left everything but one of the water bottles within easy reach on the nightstand, nudged Bridgette so that she was lying on her side, facing the wastebasket, and then passed right by Ben again on his way to settling on the living room sofa.

Ben followed helplessly. He narrowed his eyes as Dave kicked his boots up onto the coffee table, grabbed the remote, and opened his water.

Okay, now things really _were_ under control, so there was no need for Dave to stick around, let alone make himself at home. But when Ben opened his mouth to tell the other man to take a hike, what came out instead was, "How do you _know_ all this stuff?"

Dave drained half his bottled water in a few gulps, licked his lips, and patted the sofa cushion in invitation.

Ben stayed where he was, crossing his arms over his chest.

Dave rolled his eyes. "I'm not after your virtue, man. You just look like you could use a sit-down." He patted the cushion again. "This shit isn't easy."

It wasn't, but neither was being ordered around like an intern in his own home. Still, it was _his_ sofa, so Ben grudgingly took the offered seat. He let his head fall back against the cushion. "So?"

"So isn't it obvious? Not my first rodeo. Me'n Bridgette have done this dance enough times for me to know all the steps."

It _was_ obvious, of course, but… "You mean Bridgette's had a…." _Drug problem, you're going to have to learn to say it out loud._ "This...issue before?" Despite the day's events, the idea still didn't gel with the image of Bridgette in his mind.

"You could say that."

"How much, or, uh, I mean…how many times has she been through this?"

Dave sighed and smiled crookedly. "Enough."

_Enough? Enough for what?_ He didn't ask since he wasn't sure he really wanted to know the answer. Instead, he searched the other man's face. "Why does she keep calling you?"

Dave arched a sardonic brow, but was kind enough not to point out that it probably had to do with something lacking in the present company.

Ben cleared his throat. "Okay, yeah, but why do you keep helping her? You say you're not interested-"

"I'm not," Dave interrupted. He deposited his water bottle on the coffee table, ignoring the coaster six inches away, and stretched. The movement drew Ben's attention to the fact that the other man had failed to put his shirt back on after Bridgette's bath.

He doggedly kept his eyes on Dave's face. "You're not interested, but you burst in here like there was a fire and took control."

"Noticed that, did you?" He grinned. "I gotta hand it to Bridgette, she really knows how to pick 'em."

Ben folded his arms over his chest again. "You're avoiding my question."

"And that was?"

"Why are you here?"

"Why are _you_ here?"

" _What?_ " Ben asked. "I _live_ here, dammit!"

Dave shook that off like it was inconsequential. "Okay, why is Bridgette here, then?"

"Because…" he said, mouth opening and closing as he struggled to find a way to finish his sentence. _Because she's my girlfriend? Because she asked for my help? Because it's the right thing to do?_

Dave spared him from floundering by answering the original question. "I'm here because I owe her," he said quietly. "I would've thought that was obvious too."

Ben shook his head. Dave might not have noticed it, since he was staring at the coffee table. He stayed that way long enough that Ben started to debate with himself again about asking the guy to leave.

Finally, Dave let out a deflating breath and said, "I'm the one who got her started on this shit. Gave her her very first Oxy." He hunched over and put his head in his hands.

Ben blinked at the unexpected admission. His knee jerk reaction— _dirtbag_ —was quickly shouldered out by something more complex: _yeah,_ _but he's worried about her too._ A weird surge of sympathy had him reaching out to the curved back, but then he thought better of it and folded his hands in his lap.

"I, uh," he said, breaking the awkward silence, "I brought Bridgette home with me today because I'm afraid maybe I had something to do with her...you know…."

Dave lifted his head. "Popping pills? If you're gonna try to stand by her through this, you might want to work on at least being able to say the words, man."

He nodded, biting back irritation at being instructed again right when he was trying to confess the concern that had been with him all afternoon. "What if it was something I did?"

"It wasn't."

"How do you know?"

"Did you shove any pills down her throat? Mix them in with her food? Give 'em to her while she was sleeping?"

Ben shook his head. "Of course not."

"Then it's not your fault."

"But how can you be so sure? How do you-"

"Look," Dave said, cutting him off. "Ultimately, the only one who's responsible for Bridgette, is Bridgette. Every time she comes back to this shit, it's her decision, okay? You start taking credit for her actions now, it won't be doing her any favors in the long run. Believe me." He ran a hand through his hair, studying Ben curiously. "What makes you think you had anything to do with it, anyway?"

He shrugged, not comfortable discussing personal matters with this man. Dave just stared him down, making it clear he could wait all day.

Ben huffed an exasperated sigh. "The relationship's been…on sort of a downturn lately."

"And?"

"And she's been pulling away." Or more accurately, pushing him at others, but he wasn't about to go into the details of their sex life. "I should've noticed. Done something different."

Dave gave him a bland look. "That's it?"

"More or less."

He smirked. "Lemme guess. She been foisting other guys on you without joining in lately?" He gave a deep, throaty laugh at Ben's sputtering, shaking his head. "Oh, come on, sport. Bridgette's had a kink for bi guys who like to fuck around ever since she was old enough to pronounce ménage a trois."

Ben's face heated up all over again. " _Don't_ call me sport," he said through gritted teeth.

"She usually doesn't pick 'em quite so adorably straight-laced, though. _Ben_." A predatory glint darkened his eyes, sending a treacherous, totally unwelcome heat curling through Ben's belly. "Anyway," Dave said, breaking eye contact as he grabbed his water. "You want to feel guilty about something, do it for making the woman play racquetball." He shuddered theatrically before standing up.

"She likes it," Ben muttered.

"Yeah, whatever. I'm gonna go check on our little athlete."

And with that, he left Ben blinking in his wake.


	3. Chapter 3

Dave couldn't have been in the bedroom for more than three minutes before Ben heard pounding feet and the slam of his bathroom door. He cringed and pushed up from the sofa, steeling himself for another round of digestive pyrotechnics—or drama. Possibly both.

Dave intercepted him in the hall. He could hear the whir of the exhaust fan from behind the closed door. "She's awake enough to handle this one on her own. Nothing you can do in there right now but embarrass the both of you."

"Oh," Ben said, feeling useless. He wished he could do _something_. "You sure?"

Dave rapped on the door. "Want some company, Bridge?"

"Die in a fire, asshole," she shouted over the fan.

Dave spread his hands as if to say, _See?_ At least Bridgette didn't need _him_ at the moment, either. He waved his hand in front of his nose. "Whew, princess, how about a courtesy flush in there?"

"How about you take your big fucking nose away from the door?" she answered. A second later, the toilet flushed.

Ben felt an inappropriate smile creeping up. That was one of the things that'd drawn him to Bridgette: She'd never been the sort of woman who thought her shit didn't stink.

Dave moved away from the door to lean against the wall, tilting his head at Ben in contemplation.

"What?" He wiped the smile off his face.

Dave shook his head. "Nothing. You got a washing machine in this place?"

Ben nodded. "I take it the fresh sheets I put on the bed are no longer fresh?"

"Probably not like you're thinking, but she's starting to really get the sweats big time. She keep some comfortable clothes over here? That robe's gonna get ripe fast."

"Um…." He thought about the few wisps of lingerie Bridgette kept stashed in his dresser. Inspiring? Yes. Comfortable? No. Sometimes she'd hang out in a tight little undershirt and a pair of men's briefs she'd picked up God only knew where, but that was hardly what Dave had in mind. She had a fresh pantsuit or two hanging in the closet for weekday sleepovers, but… "Maybe some workout stuff?"

Ben headed to the master bedroom to hunt for her gym bag. The sheets and blankets were bunched at the foot of the bed in a tangle, but didn't look—or smell, thankfully—too soiled. Ben stepped inside the closet and scanned the floor and shelves, not quite able to remember the last time he and Bridgette visited the gym together, nor whether they'd come back to his place afterwards or not.

A low whistle right beside his ear had him spinning around and bumping back into his dress shirts still in their dry cleaning bags. Dave stood inches in front of him, hands shoved casually in the pockets of his jeans. He didn't even have the decency to notice the glare Ben shot him, too busy unselfconsciously checking out his stuff.

"Just how many pairs of shoes do you _have_?" He lifted his chin to peer over Ben's shoulder at the tidy row of oxfords and wingtips lining the back wall of the walk-in.

"Do you mind?" Ben crossed his arms over his chest.

"Not at all," he said, crowding even closer and forcing Ben a step back as he plucked a t-shirt from the stack on the shelf behind him. "Do you?" He held the shirt up to himself and raised his eyebrows. "It's getting a little chilly and mine's still on the towel rack. Wouldn't be surprised if Bridgette's using it to wipe her ass right now, actually."

Ben tried to shake that disturbing image out of his head. "Yes, fine, whatever," he snapped.

Dave tugged the shirt on without bothering to back up. Ben tried not to notice the dark flash of hair under the other man's arms. Or the contrast of charcoal gray fabric against pale skin. Or the way the cotton clung at the little peaks of the other man's nipples.

Obviously he _was_ a bit cold.

The shirt was at least a size too small for Dave. Ben thinned his lips in irritation, writing it off as a loss since the material would be too stretched for him to ever wear it out again.

"So," Dave said, smoothing the fabric down over his abs, "workout clothes?"

Ben tore his eyes away from the ruin of his almost new t-shirt—which in no way, shape, or form looked better on Dave than it did on him—and spun around to resume his search for Bridgette's bag. They hadn't been working out together much since she'd hurt her back. "I guess maybe she didn't leave them here after all."

"Probably would've been a bunch of lycra shit that'd just make her feel strangled anyway," Dave said, finally backing out enough to give Ben some breathing room. He patted down the pockets of his jeans and pulled out a tarnished key ring. "That settles it, though. Time for a supply run."

"You're leaving?" The words squawked out before Ben could bite them back. Wasn't that exactly what he'd wanted?

"Relax, cha-am…er, I mean, Ben," Dave said, his stupid grin widening even as Ben's eyes narrowed. "I'm just gonna pick up a few things for our girl. I'll be back in an hour. Two, tops."

An hour or two. Taking care of Bridgette. By himself.

No problem. He had it under control.

The decidedly not-so-under-control hours that'd dragged by before Dave's arrival flashed through Ben's mind and he almost offered to go pick up whatever Bridgette needed himself. But the thought of leaving this man unsupervised in his apartment was even more unsettling than the prospect of being alone again with his sick— _detoxing,_ an inner voice chirped—girlfriend, so he kept his mouth shut and nodded. _I'm not going to let her down._

Dave patted down his back pockets this time. "I'll hang on to her phone for now, but remember Rule Number One and keep yours away from her too. You got a landline here?"

Ben shook his head.

"Okay, good. I definitely don't want to run into some of the guys she might decide to call after me. Right. Wallet, keys. Good to go."

He stopped in front of the bathroom door on his way out, rapping at it again. "Any requests for your errand boy, princess?"

The fan was still grinding away. "Vicodin," she said sullenly.

"You're hilarious. Anything else?"

"Xanax?"

"Mmm, no. How about some Imodium and a nice potassium supplement?"

"Fuck off and die."

"Now that's not very nice," Dave said. He shot Ben—who was trying not to gape at the current round of what passed for friendly banter between these two—a lunatic grin and rolled his eyes. "And here I was going to bring you a Snack Pack."

A pause. "Banana."

"I dunno." Dave rubbed his chin. "You tried to kick me. I think you're getting tapioca."

Bridgette groaned. "I hate you so fucking much."

"That's the spirit. Be nice to this cute boyfriend of yours while I'm gone, okay?" he said, giving Ben a sideways look. "I get the feeling he's a little sensitive."

Ben's face heated yet again. He turned away to hide it, spying the mound of sheets through the bedroom doorway. He scurried in and started stripping the bed with more force than was strictly necessary.

A light touch to his elbow had him spinning around.

"Try to keep her away from sharp objects while I'm gone, man."

Ben's mouth went dry. "You don't think she'd actually try to hurt herself?" _She wouldn't, would she?_ If he could screw things up with Bridgette that badly, he was ready to let Dave do whatever the hell he wanted in his apartment, just so long as he stayed and kept her safe.

The other man appeared to think about it, which didn't exactly instill Ben with confidence. "Coming off shit'll make anybody feel incredibly fucking low," he said slowly. Then the corner of his mouth tilted up. "But I'm more worried about her hiding away something to shank me with when I get back."

Ben blinked at him, mouth hanging open. _Was he serious?_ He shook his head. "You're insane."

Dave shrugged. "Insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results."

"What?"

"Just some bullshit. Never mind." He took a step closer, face sobering as he reached out and laid a hand on Ben's shoulder. "Look, she'll be okay. Just get her to drink something if you can, keep her company and try not to let her dwell on how shitty she feels. You'll do fine."

Right. He could do this.

Dave gave a warm squeeze before releasing his shoulder. "And don't lay anything heavy on her right now, alright?"

_Heavy? Isn't this whole situation heavy?_ Ben opened his mouth to object—or maybe just to ask what he even meant by that—but Dave ran right over him.

"I can practically see the little hamster running at its wheel in your head, man, but she's not gonna be ready for your questions yet, okay? I won't be gone long."

As if Ben was planning on giving her the third degree. He might not have been the expert that _Dave_ was, but he had at least some tact. _He thinks I'm a complete idiot, doesn't he?_

"No rush," Ben said, lifting his chin.

"Atta boy." He gave him a condescending mock-punch in the arm and headed out of the room.

Since Dave hadn't had any trouble finding his way in, Ben decided not to bother with showing him out. He heard the front door snick shut as he finished stripping the sheets.

* * *

The toilet flushed again as he was loading the washing machine. He punched the setting for hot water and flipped the lid closed before wiping his sweaty palms on his pants. _It's just Bridgette_ , he reminded himself. _She's still the same person she was a month ago._

Bridgette was hunched in the middle of the hallway, clutching his bathrobe around her shoulders. Her hair had mostly dried while she was sleeping—one side matted down against her head, the other standing up in corkscrews that bounced as she shivered. She looked like hell, eyes fever-bright and hollow, but her lips twitched with the hint of a sheepish smile.

She ran one foot over the other, an endearing little habit Ben had noticed way back on their second date when he'd been sitting with her on the sofa and working up the nerve to make the first move. She'd rubbed her feet together like that and pounced, kissing him dizzy against the back of the armrest before making the next several, very enjoyable, moves herself.

Some of the weird nervousness in his belly uncoiled. _She_ is _still just Bridgette._ He managed to return her little smile.

"Hey," she croaked.

"Hey."

_Bridgette with a drug problem._

Dave's parting advice didn't seem so patronizing as his mind flooded with questions. _Why didn't you tell me you'd been through this before? How many times? Do you always call_ him _for help?_

The question that made it out was, "You, uh, want to go back to bed? I think there's still one more set of clean sheets I could put on."

"Too tired to sleep." She ran a hand through her hair, grimacing when it got stuck in a tangle. "What time is it?"

He realized he had no idea—he must've left his phone in the living room. It had grown dim inside the apartment without him noticing. "Not sure." He remembered what Dave had said about her not needing to see how slowly time was passing and added, "Doesn't matter, anyway."

They stared at each other in awkward silence for a moment.

"You feeling hungry at all? Want me to fix you something?"

She shot him a _look_. "Emphatically no."

"Yeah, sorry, stupid question. How about something to drink? I think there's another Gatorade in the fridge."

She swallowed, looking green, but gave a little nod.

"Great, good," he said, too enthusiastic. _Jesus, why does it all feel so_ _weird?_ "I'll, uh, go get it." He pecked a kiss onto her clammy forehead. "I'll bring it out to the sofa and we can put on Netflix or something, okay?"

She nodded again.

Ben surreptitiously pocketed his cell phone, hunted down the drink, and grabbed an afghan from the linen closet all in the time it took Bridgette to shuffle to the living room. With a hand braced in the small of her back, she lowered herself arthritically to the sofa cushions. He helped her put her feet up before handing over the sports drink.

She stared at the bottle like she didn't know what to do with it. "My back's fucking killing me."

Was the injury really still bothering her? Maybe she'd been taking those pills because something was truly wrong?

_Yeah,_ that's _why she's been taking oxycodone by the fistful_ , drawled a sarcastic voice in the back of his mind.

"Here," he said, slipping behind her. He guided her to lean back against him and started kneading the muscles in her lower back. "That better?"

She hissed. Worried, he drew his hands away.

"Hey, I didn't say to stop," she said, smacking his knee.

He dug his thumbs in again, smiling at Bridgette's appreciative groan. He worked his way up and down her back as they settled into a more comfortable silence. Bridgette broke it by clearing her throat. "Thanks. For…you know."

"Um...sure. No problem."

She snorted at that—it was a problem and they both knew it—but let it go.

Ben kept up the massage, grateful to feel useful for a change as he smoothed some of the stress from her body. Dave's advice— _nothing heavy_ —echoed in his thoughts and he knew he should just savor the calm moment. But some of the weirdness had faded…and there was one question he felt he _needed_ to ask.

"Are you sure you want him here?"

She tensed.

He wanted to take the words back, but, perversely, more came spilling out instead. "Just say the word and he's gone, okay? I don't even have to let him back in."

_She hates him_ , he rationalized. _She called him for_ drugs _, not to stick around. If she thinks it was a mistake and doesn't really want him here, what good is his advice, anyway?_

"Leave it alone, Ben." She sat up straighter, pulling away from his chest.

It was good advice. And he should've followed it.

He raised his hands. "Done," he said, feeling hurt and like an asshole all at once.

She settled back against him slowly. "Okay."

He resumed the back rub in a much less comfortable silence.


End file.
